Collateral Damage
by ShinkonoKokoro
Summary: Sherlock was gone. That was all well and good for him, because he was gone. But John wasn't gone. And Lestrade wasn't gone. Molly, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson weren't gone. So they're the ones that have to deal with the fall-out.
1. Chapter 1

**Mycroft:**

They wanted him to come down to the morgue to identify his brother's body.

No need.

He knew it was Sherlock.

Mycroft hung up, leaned back in his chair. He knew before the story would hit the front pages. Sherlock Holmes. 'Fake Genius' they would say. Suicide.

He shuddered.

Sherlock Holmes had made his bed. Playing with this devil. Now he would lie in it. Permanently.

Only. That wasn't quite true. Was it, Mycroft.

His fingers clenched around each other until the knuckles turned white.

No.

_Mycroft_ had made the bed that Sherlock lay in.

Mycroft was at fault.

He stood and stared around at the office into which he poured all of his energy, grabbed his blazer off the back of his chair, his jacket, his umbrella, and headed downstairs for his car to take him home.

Beatrice greeted him at the door with a smile that faded as she watched his face. Then she took his coat, his umbrella, his blazer, his shoes and smiled again briefly before drawing him to the sofa where she pulled him down, pressed his head to her breast and stroked his hair until the tension left.

"Bad day?" she asked, quiet and perfect. "That's fine," she said when he didn't respond. One of her hands moved to take his, brushing her thumb over his knuckles. "I know you can't talk about it."

He let the silence stretch before he just sighed and said into the dimming light of evening, "My brother died."

At that, Beatrice jerked and pulled back to look at his face. "Mycroft!"

He made a small noise of impatience. "It'll be in the papers tomorrow. You can read all about it."

"Is there anything you can tell me?"

"It wasn't suicide. And he obviously wasn't a fake." He stood and drew away from her comfort, denying himself that luxury. He didn't deserve it. "It was..." Beatrice waited for him to explain. Always waiting. Always listening. Always patient. His face twisted into impatience and he quelled the urge to knock something over or yell. Or something. "I'm sorry. I can't," he said blandly.

"That's fine."

Never curious. That was his Beatrice. Always waiting. Never asking. Never taking more than he could give her.

"Are you hungry? We could go out for dinner—no. No, that would be gauche, wouldn't it. I'll bake something for dessert though. To cheer you up. When is the funeral?"

"I...don't know," he sighed, the anger leaving him weak and empty, like a husk. Pressing his thumb and middle fingers to opposite temples, Mycroft shook his head. "I'm going to go change."

"Of course, dear. Dinner will be on the table soon. Wine?"

"No. No thank you."

She smiled and brushed past him, leaving only the lightest touch of her lips on his cheek.

* * *

><p><strong>John:<strong>

The first few weeks—first _months—_are the hardest. Not because it's still fresh and his heart is still raw, but because John still has hope.

It doesn't make sense.

None of it.

But that's exactly why John has hope. Because none of it makes sense, and it's exactly the type of elaborate ruse that Sherlock would use to flush out a guilty party. Escalated, of course, from crocodile tears, fresh bruises, and bloodied harpoons, but none-the-less...

So even after the funeral and his own stilted words over the headstone, John has hope.

That Sherlock might just be alive and might come back to him to relieve this infernal endless boredom of sitting at home and _waiting_. John was ready to bang his head against a wall. Or maybe just fire new rounds into it.

He even held out when Mycroft came by and shook his head, telling him flatly to give up. Here's a copy of Sherlock's will. You've everything. John half expected, 'I hope you're happy now.'

But it didn't come.

And Mycroft would know. Sherlock, despite their rivalries and bitter words, Mycroft would know that Sherlock was still alive, and Sherlock would have told him to lie to John. Because otherwise John's hope would be too strong and...

John had kicked Mycroft out, bellowing at him. And then he'd snuck into Sherlock's room and curled up on the bed and cried ad then cried some more because he was wetting Sherlock's pillow and he wouldn't be happy.

He didn't tell his therapist about that. And after a final meeting, he didn't go back. She didn't help. Sherlock was right. If he wanted a therapist, he should find a new one.

John kept the job at the clinic, asked for more hours. Stared at the wallpaper of their flat. His flat. It was all his. As well as a large portion of Sherlock's money, all of his belongings, and the permission to do what he wanted with all of it. As he sat on the sofa and stared around at all of Sherlock's things, everything exactly the way Sherlock had left it, John's fists clenched and unclenched more and more, tighter and tighter, harder and harder. "_FUCK_!" he finally yelled, jumping to his feet. "_Fuck you_, Sherlock Holmes! What the _hell_ do you want me to do with all of your bloody shit! What _good_ is it to me now!" He kicked a pile of books, half of him giddy with the satisfaction of watching them fly across the room, the other half of him terrified because he'd changed something and now it was all different and he scrambled to pick them up and put them back in the same order. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I won't change anything..." He got up off his hands and knees and carried himself to the shower and then to bed. Nothing would be different in the morning. Sherlock would still be gone—didn't matter where, gone was gone, wasn't it? And John would be left with a flat with one bedroom too many and no one to share it with.

There wasn't much to do, John discovered with Sherlock gone. And with hope haunting each of the small corners, there wasn't much John could do about his heart beating fast each time the door opened downstairs. Never mind that John could always tell Sherlock's footsteps from Mrs. Hudson's. Never mind that he sometimes got lost in the what-if moments of those footsteps actually being Sherlock's. He'd glance at the clock, sigh, and pause for a second to lament the time that was suddenly gone. He spent most of his morning on what-if musings and when the clock startled him out of it at 1:00, he got up, changed, and thumped, heavy, down the steps to do the shopping.

* * *

><p><strong>Mrs. Hudson:<strong>

It was too quiet upstairs. Virginia Hudson had made tea, watched her recorded telly programs, read the next chapter of her (frankly dull) novel, and dusted the mantle for a lack of anything better to do. Poor John sounded like he hadn't moved from the sofa where he'd thrown himself early that morning.

She'd heard Sherlock do it often enough to recognise that particular squeak and thump.

Her tea was cold.

Maybe a fresh brew to take up to John?

She busied herself with that goal and tutted over her cups. Maybe she should look into a new set now that she had a spot of money. Sherlock had lef...

Shaking herself out of the sorrowful daze, she put the cups and pot on a tray along with some ginger biscuits. Sherlock never liked them, but John would be persuaded.

She just made it to the door and nearly ran into the man in question, flying down the stairs, jacket half on.

"Oh. Mrs. Hudson..."

"Going out?" She smiled.

He eyed the tray. "I was... Did you want..."

"Oh no. Go on, dear. I was just going to keep you company."

He looked tired. The poor attempt at a smile faded and he glanced at the front door. "Would you like some?"

"Go ahead. You were obviously on your way out. I won't keep you." She paused. "Would you like some boxes?"

He looked at her sharply, confusion writ in the creases on his forehead. "Boxes?"

"Yes," she replied patiently. "For his things."

"His...Sherlock's." John's expression darkened and his gaze fell to his feet. "No. No boxes. I'll see you later, Mrs. Hudson. I have to go."

"Of course. You have a nice rest of our day..." She set the tray down on a sideboard and watched him leave, shoulders tight but stride sure. Poor man was taking it hard. Surely it would be better if Sherlock's things weren't there, reminding him constantly. Why, the first thing she had done once her ex-husband was behind bars was burn his things. Cathartic. Not that John would ever burn Sherlock's things...

She sighed.

Perhaps Laura Turner was available. And better company. Even if she did have to listen to her bragging on about her grandchildren. They were lovely people, she'd met them, but she didn't so much care to hear about their accomplishments today.

Virginia sighed and brought her tea back inside before she lifted the phone.

* * *

><p><strong>John<strong>:

When he took the time to walk the room, feeling particularly masochistic, he shuddered at just how empty their flat would be if John got rid of all of Sherlock's things. The thought alone made him grip the desk to steady himself against the sudden vertigo.

The books? Save for a few, Sherlock's.

The paper's? Sherlock's.

The furniture? Sherlock's of course. John had had nothing to contribute.

The decour? Mostly Sherlock's. Specifically the spray paint and bullet holes, of course.

Everything, God, _everything_ was Sherlock's. John gripped the desk tighter. Until he felt the pressure in his nail beds.

Eager, apparently, for more emotional distress, John wandered to Sherlock's room. Not in. No, he hovered in the doorway, afraid if he entered, he would break the spell and make it real. Sherlock wasn't coming back. But then he saw the unmade bed and had to turn away. Shut the door behind him, eyes squeezed shut, waiting until the wood hit his back and the latch clicked until he let go of the knob and stagger away. It isn't enough. He dug the palms of his hands into his eyes until they bled colour and then gasped for breath.

Too much.

John went up to his room and shut the door, shut the drapes, and then wrapped himself up in his bed, shutting out all light, all sound that wasn't there.

* * *

><p><strong>Molly:<strong>

Mycroft refused to come identify the body. That was fine. That was how it was supposed to be, yeah? Even if it did make all of her hard work go to waste. Gathering up her coat and purse, Molly pulled her keys out to hold in her hand like an anchor, stepping onto the tube to make her way home.

Watching all of the people in her car, she wondered what cutting remarks Sherlock would have to say about their plainness. How ordinary and simple they were. Would he ever see them? No. They were merely signal flashes of information, facts that he could glean that no one else could. They weren't important save for the means to an end. She sighed and shut her eyes against it all.

How tiring. To make someone dead. Molly folded her hands over her purse in her lap, half-listening for her station. All of the paperwork. Sherlock had forged the necessary signatures that weren't hers and then, once bandaged, skipped out. She'd grabbed his sleeve before she vanished and stammered out that he should come to her. If he needed anything. If he needed somewhere to stay. If he needed anything. Anything that she could do. He'd looked surprised, but hesitated a moment, patted her hand awkwardly and nodded. Then disappeared into the world to become a ghost on the wind.

After her eyes drifted shut several times, she took her mobile out to check messages so that she wouldn't fall asleep on the way home. One from her mother, asking her for dinner. One from her cousin, requesting a place to sleep while in town for two days. Accepted the former, declined the latter. Just in case. In case _he_ needed a place to stay.

The illicitness was exciting. Lonely, but terribly exciting. She was the only one who knew. But she couldn't tell a soul. And that was the loneliest. But worse still was that she would have to face John and Greg at the funeral. Mycroft too, she imagined. She would have to face them all, knowing she could relieve their pain, but would never. She was Sherlock's lifeline. His secret-keeper. And she could never betray that gift, even if it meant watching John hurt. She shuddered. This secret was a terrible thing. But she would keep it. Because she had agreed. And it was the least she could do to help the world. Do her part. More than she ever imagined. Here was her chance. Help Sherlock be the hero he denied he was. Well. He wasn't, really. He was a great brat of a man who tore others down without a thought sometimes. But he did great things. And now... well now he tried. He cared. She'd seen it. This proved it. So she would keep his secret and suffer her part.

Molly got off the train and walked the four and a half blocks to her flat and knelt to pet Toby and Moira. "Hello. Hello," she whispered softly, stretching her fingers through their long fur. "Hello my dears. Today was a sad day." She stood again, hung her coat. Put her purse on the table and went to make a hot cuppa. Mission accomplished, Molly sat on her sofa, in her quiet flat, with her cats and her secret.

* * *

><p><strong>Lestrade:<strong>

He sat slowly at his desk that was still his. For the time being. Greg looked heavenward and heaved a great sigh, gripping the top, fingers pressing into the desk blotter. Glancing out into the general office, Sally was frowning at her desk. They'd gotten the news almost immediately.

Sally's face had blanched before shutting down and turning into a blank mask that even after all of his years working with her, Greg couldn't read. Anderson's face had turned blank with a kind of wondering horror. Sally got her body after all.

Grabbing his coat, keys, badge, and mobile, Greg swept out of the office, mumbling something about leaving early to whoever might listen. His feet took him to the pub down the street, rather than go home and face his wife. He couldn't deal with that just yet. But three hours and five missed calls from Jessica and he slapped notes down on the counter before sauntering out and hailing a taxi for home.

"Jess...?" he called as soon as he pushed the door open.

"Greg? Greg where the _fuck_ have you been?"

"I—"

She rounded the corner and took one look at him before curling a lip. "Oh God. The pub _again_?"

He snorted and hung his jacket on the second try. "Sorry. I just needed to—"

"You just needed to what? Drink your problems away?" Ah there they were. Hands on the hips.

"_Yes_! I needed some time for _me_!"

"Oh yes." Hands up in the air. "Time for you. How selfish of me. Never mind then. I'll just give you some time for _you_ then, shall I?"

"Jess, that's not what I meant." He pushed a hand through his hair. No wonder it'd gone grey so early.

"Well then what, Greg? Sorry, love, but it seems to be the same old story every time. Rough day at work, I'll spend some time at the pub. Hard day today, pub time!"

"That's not _it_!" he roared. Felt a little bit better when Jess took a step back, brows flying up. "Today... We lost a..." God, was he going to be able to get it out without breaking? "We lost a good man today."

Some of the ire left Jess's face, and her hands folded around her middle as if to stop them from reaching towards him. They didn't touch so much these days. "I'm sorry."

"It... It was partially my fault. I should have believed him from the beginning. I've always believed him. I just..." Now the words wouldn't stop coming, rough, voice harsh through his lips. "I should have stood by him. He's always been right in the end, and this wasn't... I shouldn't have believed. He's always helped out when we needed... He's—_was, God_, a good man. I've always tried to help him, even if he didn't want it. I watched him grow up... _Fuck_, Jess. I feel responsible for him. And now...he's..." He shook his head. "_Fuck_, he's dead. He didn't...deserve that..." He dropped his gaze to the floor, shoulders hunched. This was the last thing their relationship needed.

"I'm sorry, Greg. That's awful. Do you...tea?"

He shook his head. "No. No, I'm fine. I just... I'm sorry I'm late and didn't call," he said tiredly.

"It's fine. I'll reheat dinner."

He nodded. "Sure. Sure, I'll go...change." He trudged his way upstairs and dropped his clothes into the dirty bin and threw on his old uni t-shirt and a pair of sweats before washing his face and joining his wife for a silent miserable dinner.

* * *

><p><strong>Mrs. Hudson:<strong>

She started a collection of boxes. All empty. She would send them up to John when he was ready. When he stopped jumping at shadows and looking over his shoulder, poor dear. Virginia listened carefully, spending more time at home to pay attention to John. She worried about him some days. He spent too much time in that flat with no visitors.

At least three times a week she visited him, bringing tea and they sat amidst Sherlock's mess, mostly silent. Whenever she tried asking questions, John didn't, or couldn't?, answer.

Little memories floated around in her head of Sherlock. Good ones. Bad ones. Whichever, they passed the days. Made his absence a little easier in her old heart. Some days she'd sit amongst Sherlock's things with John and feel so small in the realm of the things he'd done. Some days it would warm her heart to be close to those things, knowing he'd helped her out of a bad way and done his best for her. Sherlock cared in the strangest ways. But he always knew when to press a kiss to her temple on the worst days and shout into her flat when he'd not been round in a while. Her dear boys.

Now they were broken. Like those silly necklaces that the young girls all had, the ones that came as a pair, one half fitting into the other. The Sherlock half was lost.

* * *

><p><strong>John:<strong>

Some days, John still made tea for two. To punish himself, he drank Sherlock's awful sweet concoction anyway. It happened more often when he was still full of hope.

These days, though, he sat amongst Sherlock's things, back where he'd started, save the limp and cane. A blinking cursor. Nothing left to type. No new stories. What was there to write when nothing happened anymore. It was one of these days that Mycroft came up and turned the chair—_turned the chair—_to face him, sitting, staring, assessing.

"What do you want?" John asked, in no mood for playing games.

"I stopped by to see you."

"I don't want to see you."

"I know."

"Then why are you here?"

Mycroft stared at him some more, and John felt the slow bubble of anger stirring beneath his skin, forgotten, but willing to come to life.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"You still blame me?"

"Of course I fucking blame you," John snorted, folding his arms across his chest, not summoning the energy for a glare.

Sighing like it was no more than a tiny irritant, Mycroft blinked slowly. "I can understa—"

"Sorry, but I don't think you can. If you're here to tell me to get over it again, then you can leave. I blame you. It's your fault." For once, he saw some emotion pass through the mask. Subtle. Small. Anguish. John sat forward. "_Fuck_. You _know_ that, don't you!"

"Of course I know that." Mycroft's voice carried a harsher tone to it than usual. Vindication.

He sagged back into the cushions, letting his jaw hang. "You bloody cold-minded, utter _bastard_."

Mycroft dropped his eyes.

"Get out. Get out right now. I don't want to see your face unless I call it here. _Fuck_." He fairly trembled with the anger now.

"John—"

"Get _out_, or so help me, Mycroft, I _will_ punch you in the face," he said, voice low. He gripped his hands tight in his lap.

The elder Holmes stood and gave a jerky nod and then left.

John sat, for a long time, staring at the turned chair.

* * *

><p><strong>Lestrade:<strong>

He knew he should kick the habit of leaving work early. But he was already on probation and had one citation. Why not leave early. Anderson glared sullenly at him daily, Sally held her chin high despite the shame in her eyes. It was all going to shit anyway. Why not round out the deal with doing a crap job at work.

Jess had been patient with him a week and a half—four days longer than he expected. But then it was back to the sniping and tetchy behaviour. That, if he were honest, he actually deserved this time around.

He should call John.

_Fuck_.

He didn't want to call John. He had all the misery he could stomach in his life. He didn't need to bear witness to John's too.

He sighed down into his pint. The pub was noisy. Better for him not to think then. Things didn't seem so sharp when he was buzzed. The world was softer. Less his fault. Well there was inspiration to become an alcoholic.

And maybe it wasn't his fault. No way to tell. He worked too often in the land of fault to suss it out in his own life.

"Greg?"

He started, looking up at one John Watson. Apparently thought summoned the man. He tried a smile, but, given the grimace on John's face, it hadn't quite succeeded. "So. You come here often?"

John grimaced again, the expression making him look more like an addict. He looked away and dropped his eyes, sinking onto a stool next to him.

Greg snorted once into his pint, John raising a hand.

"Didn't expect to see you here."

"Didn't expect to see _you_."

John's face twisted into something dark and wry. "Watsons. We know how to responsibly handle our problems."

He didn't nod. Didn't ask how John was. Didn't pass judgement on how quickly he drank down his pint and asked for another.

"You know..." John slurred finally. "He's a vicious bastard..."

"I know."

John swivelled unsteadily towards him. "He made me fucking _watch_, Greg. I watched," John said hollowly, eyes gazing off somewhere only John could see. "What do I _do_ with that?"

Greg winced. "I..."

"There isn't anything," John said flatly. "Don't even bother. There's nothing to say. God, that fucking _wanker_."

"I know."

John jerked alarmingly and dropped his head into his hand, one broken sob heard over the noise of the pub.

Greg just felt uncomfortable.

"God. Sorry, I—" John stood and nearly fell over. "I need to...home. Fuck. _Fuck_."

Greg sighed, drained his mug and then slid off his own stool, wobbling slightly. "Lemme help you..."

John waved him off, but Greg slipped an arm beneath John's, mentally reeling as he felt just how thin John Watson was. Then staggering out of the pub, he walked John back to 221B, waving to Mrs. Hudson on his way down. Then caught a taxi to bring him home.

The quiet house was a relief. Until he got to the kitchen, gripping the doorway tight to stay upright. The note was simple: Get your shit together. Until then I'm saying with my brother. -Jess

He crumpled it up and missed the rubbish bin. Dropping clothes on his way to the bed, he flicked off the light and fell into bed.

* * *

><p><strong>John:<strong>

He woke up to noise downstairs, dismissing it over his imploded head. Until he could tell, even in his still-drunk state that it didn't sound like Mrs. Hudson.

Cursing mentally, John, reached beneath the mattress to grab his gun and rolled off of his bed where Lestrade must have dumped him the night before. Creeping down the stairs, avoiding the left edge of the sixth and the third stair all together, he had his weapon steady, exhaling noisily once he saw Mrs. Hudson's grape dress. He dropped it on the stairs behind him and then shrieked as he noticed what she was doing.

She shrieked in turn and fell back as John dove for the piles of things she was tucking away in boxes.

"No! No what are you doing?" He fell amongst the boxes, tipping the over, pouring Sherlock's things out on the floor to take up the space again.

"John!" Mrs. Hudson cried.

When he stilled, breath coming fast, blood still cold, she looked down at him, eyes wide. Her hands trembled, lifted to cover her mouth. She stepped back.

He felt feral.

He opened his mouth.

"I'm sorry. Dear. I'll just..." She fumbled around for something to say and then turned and left his flat rather quickly, shutting the door behind her.

John dropped his head, sagging onto the pile of Sherlock's things he was currently hunched over like a caveman over the last bit of meat. His lip quirked before he was on his feet and in the loo, heaving his guts into the toilet.

* * *

><p><strong>Mrs. Hudson:<strong>

Virginia didn't even make it all the way down the stairs before the tears slid down her cheeks. She did wait until she'd shut her door and was supported by it in her own flat to let herself shudder and shake. John had never scared her before. She sank down to the floor, hand covering her mouth as the tears dripped down her face.

She stayed there, hunched over against her door for as long as her old knees could take it, and then tottered off to shower and sleep, hoping she might forget the whole wretched incident. Especially the way John's eyes had stared up at her, wide and animalistic. She made herself tea and then sat in front of the telly to calm down before she went to bed.

The next morning, she called up Laura and spent the day away from John. She returned that evening to a note on her door. She'd just ripped it off when the door upstairs flew open and John's harried face appeared.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

She blinked up at John, frozen.

"God, Mrs. Hudson, I'm so sorry." John sagged in the doorway a second before hurrying down the stairs.

She took a step and then forced her feet still when John's face flashed panic and horror.

"Oh my God. Please. Mrs. Hudson. I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry. Please. Forgive me?"

She folded her arms and then dropped them to her sides again. "John dear."

"Oh Mrs. Hudson, please. I'm sorry. I can't say it enough. Please forgive me." He came forward further, hands out in supplication.

"Oh John..." The tension leeched away and she sagged, holding her arms open for the boy. "I forgive you. Of course I forgive you, dear, but you _scared_ me! You..." She trembled. "You were..."

"I _know_. I _know_," John said, hurrying forward into her arms. "I'm really... I'm really sorry. It was unacceptable. It'd just been... It was a bad night. Morning. And I'm...I'm sorry."

He was sobbing on her shoulder now. Virginia patted his back, switching to long strokes up and down his back. "It's okay, love. It's okay. You're my boy. The only one I've got left." She clung to him. "You're my boy. It's okay, John. You're my boy..."

They stood there for a long time. Until John had stopped crying. Until Virginia stopped crying.

* * *

><p><strong>Mycroft:<strong>

Mycroft would never admit to thinking he saw his brother on the street. That would be too irrational of him. Sherlock was dead. And none of the niggling doubt that said otherwise could be proved. He snorted, startling his wife out of her reverie.

"Something wrong?" she asked, looking up from her book.

Mycroft smiled blandly at her. "No. Nothing." And then returned to his computer. The curser blinked at him mockingly. He refrained from the next sigh bubbling up within him.

"Mycroft..."

"Not now, Beatrice." His wife's face softened out of the corner of his eye.

"Still upset about Sherlock, dear?"

"Don't."

She sighed. "You've hardly said anything at all about him. I haven't heard you say his name. You used to complain about his antics all the time."

He ignored her.

"Mycroft..."

"Beatrice," he barked.

She stood and dropped her book on the loveseat. "Fine, Mycroft. Fine. You don't have to talk about him. I just think... I think you should."

He pressed his lips together.

"Fine." She stomped off and went to bed, slamming the door to their bedroom.

Mycroft stayed up for eight more hours, allowing himself a brief nap on the sofa before showering and dressing to go to work.

The cameras told him that John Watson was still alive. If unmotivated and rather sedentary. And, frankly depressing. The good DI's life was falling apart at the seams. In fact, everyone that his brother's life had touched was fairly falling apart. Except for that woman. The one from whom his brother always commandeered body parts. She was the only one who seemed to be sustaining her life.

He frowned.

Even his own.

The shadows cast on his wall from his blinds slowly tracked their way up the wall as he stared at papers and documents. Plans and deeds and contracts.

He shoved them all away around noon and called Anthea to bring him dessert and to make a note to visit Miss Molly Hooper when he had time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Molly**

The morgue was a lonely place most days. The days that no one came to visit her, more so than others. And these days, that was more often than not. No Sherlock to barge in. No Lestrade to come chasing after him for information. No John coming in to roll his eyes at Sherlock's lack of social skills and morbid tendencies.

She sighed and set her paperwork down, leaning on her elbows to stare over her small domain. Her little corner of the world. The place where she made sense of the order of the world.

The usual suspects of her realm of social experiences had dwindled. John was lost. He was lost in his world. Destroyed without Sherlock around. And while Molly knew John wouldn't be able to tell that Molly was lying to him, she didn't want to run the risk. Or put herself in the position of blurting out the truth. Which she wouldn't—_couldn't—_do.

She never saw Anderson these days. Which, frankly, was fine. The man was obnoxious. She tapped her pencil against the table. And Sally had developed a case of the yips, as she understood. She was going to be demoted soon if she didn't step her game up again. Molly almost felt bad for her. If she hadn't been the cause of all of this stress and secrecy. She bit her lip. That wasn't fair. It wasn't entirely her fault. She was just doing what she thought was right.

Molly finally set down her pencil and pushed her chair away. She turned to fetch herself some coffee (_black two sugars—_oh God) and screamed.

"Well dear, if I'd known I'd have such an effect, I surely would have worn my visiting mask," the well-dressed bland-looking man in the doorway said.

Pressing a hand to her chest, Molly took a deep breath and then smoothed her hair. "Mr. Holmes. Hullo."

"Miss Hooper."

"Oh. Um. Molly. Please." She frowned at him. "What are you doing here?" She didn't think Mycroft would ever have a reason to interact with her at all. Unless... No, he hardly could have figured it out. Sherlock had...she bit her lip.

Mycroft looked her over, arms hanging by his sides.

"Can I help you with something?"

Mycroft smiled.

Molly suppressed a shudder.

"What level of intimacy did you encounter with my brother?"

She choked. "Wai—I'm sorry _what_?"

"Not intimate then. But you wanted it."

"Stop that," she said lowly. Her fingers curled into her palms.

"You worked with my brother."

"Sherlock occasionally used the morgue. And...and _borrowed_ things from me. But we were never friends. And we were never _together_!" While once she would have loved the idea, now... No. Now it was not something she'd think she'd enjoy.

Mycroft squinted at her.

Molly rolled her eyes to cover her unease. "What do you want, Mr. Holmes."

"You were with him before he died?"

"For a little while. He was..." She gestured around. "Here. In the morgue."

Mycroft nodded and finally stepped into the room, looking at everything but not touching. "So how are you doing, Miss Hooper. I'm sorry. Molly."

"Um. I'm fine..." She worried at her cuticles, watching him.

"Yes. Yes, I know."

"Sorry?"

Mycroft sighed and fixed her with a placid stare. "You're fine."

"Yes...?"

He tilted his head. "It's the anomaly."

"I'm sorry. I just don't understand what you're getting at!"

"I'm sorry for bothering you." He turned and headed to the door.

Molly let him go, afraid that if she said anything to stop him, he might ask questions. She was the anomaly. She always was. "I'm just..." she whispered finally. "I'm just glad to have life back as normal."

He paused in the doorway but didn't look back and then disappeared around the corner.

Molly sagged against the counter and dug the heels of her hands into her eyes until she saw stars. Then grabbed her things and headed home to her haven of solitude and secrets.

* * *

><p><strong>Lestrade:<strong>

The appointment with his superiors had not gone well. Greg had forgotten it was today, so had arrived late, unshowered, and smelling of beer. Not the best impression of course. And he had exited the meeting much in the same laissez-faire attitude in which he had entered. His mood greatly improved, of course, seeing as he'd been fired.

Greg slouched back to his office and stared dispassionately at his things. He sighed and spared a minute to put some semblance of order to the papers and folders before saving important things to his memory stick. He tossed the various things that actually mattered to him into a spare plastic bag he found lying around and then trudged out to the pavement to hail a taxi home. He hadn't driven to work in over a week on account of being over the legal limit. He grinned in the back seat until he caught sight of the cabbie's face and then schooled his features into something more normal. Drinking at home it was then...

Greg used a lot of his new-found freedom to lounge on the couch, drunk, for the next week. Jess came home once, caught sight of him, and rolled her eyes.

"I'm serious, Greg. If you don't straighten yourself up, I'm going to leave permanently," she'd threatened.

"Go on then." He'd lifted the can to his lips, watching her, comfortable in his woozy haze.

Her expression of surprise had been almost entertaining. "What?"

"You keep threatening. You love me at all anymore?"

Softening briefly, she'd looked away and was silent a moment. But when she'd met his gaze again, her eyes were hard. "Fine. We'll divorce then. Shall I get the papers ready?"

"Go on then," he'd repeated.

She'd had them to him by the end of the week. And he felt even freer. All these things, these stressful little things had been sheared out of his life, and now he was free. Greg grinned at the ceiling while it rippled like the sea.

He shifted and the telly remote, his mobile, and a bag of crisps all fell to the floor. When he'd finally mobilised himself to retrieve them, he caught a whiff of something foul. Apparently he should shower, since it seemed the reek was him. He stumbled into the walls several times on his way to the shower, but finally managed to get himself clean. Tucking a little flask he'd found somewhere (probably his father's...or Jess's brother's), he headed out.

Somewhere along the way (maybe the third time around the same block) he realised he'd forgotten shoes. But since it was pleasant and dry out, he didn't bother turning back. Passing the liquor store, he hesitated, but went on. It was bright out. He rubbed a hand over his jaw. Felt good. Rough. Shit, had he remembered his key—oh. Yes. There. In his pocket. He giggled. He'd really be shit outta luck.

He rounded the corner, meandering along.

"Lestrade?"

He jerked, spinning around clumsily.

"Greg?"

"John! Johnny! How are you?"

"Good God, Greg.

"How 'bout a drink, eh?"

"Greg... It's only half ten."

"Oh." He could feel his eyebrows go up. "That early?" He swayed a little. There were two Johns suddenly. One looked extremely disappointed. The other grinned, a little leery.

"Oh Jesus..." John reached out and grabbed his shoulder. "How drunk _are_ you?"

"Just... just a little."

"And uh... you're not. You're not wearing shoes."

"Fergot..." Greg scuffed his foot over the pavement. "But I _did_ remember my keys!"

"Oh good..." John said before sighing heavily. "Come on then. Let's get you home..."

"S'alright. Let's go out. Nowhere to be."

John frowned at him, guiding him back down the street.

"Got fired! You didn't hear?"

"Fired!" John yelped, surprise edging it's way into the worn down folds of his face.

Greg grinned. "S'been lovely. All this sleeping and...and drinking..."

"Greg, what day is it?"

"It's..." He glared at the traffic light. "Wait, 've got this one." Wednesday he's thrown up in the kitchen. He'd cleaned it... two days ago? And then it was the day after his wife had dropped by with the divorce papers? "Should be Sunday?"

"It's Tuesday morning," John said dully. "You live...right?"

"Yeah. Turn right." He sagged into John's shoulder. "Eighth on th'left."

"Right. Right."

Greg snorted. "You sound like I'd feel. Feel if I weren't." He floundered for the word. "Drunk." John sighed. "Sorry. No. I mean—"

"_Greg_. Stop. _Please_."

"Right." He sucked in a shaky breath. "Right." It was silence until they reached Greg's house.

"D'you need... Do you need me to come in?"

"Uh... You prob'ly shouldn't..." He wobbled away from John's support, digging in his pockets for his keys. "Bollocks... Where the fuck did I leave them..."

John dug into the front pocket of Greg's sweatshirt and opened the door for him. "Oh God..."

Greg rocked forward, sniffing the air. Shrugged. "S'not so bad..."

John stared at him.

He grinned and took a pull from the flask.

"No," John said, brow furrowing. "_No_." He slapped it out of Greg's hand. "You do _not _get to be _drunk_ while we... You do not get to be drunk to get over this."

"Says who?"

"Says the man with the alcoholic _sister_, you bastard," John snarled, pushing him into his own house.

"Hey!"

"No. Shut. Up. What is this mess?"

Greg stared at the ruins of his home. He lifted a shoulder and let it drop.

John looked around a minute, shaking his head. "God." He frowned at him suddenly. "Greg, your wife..."

He flinched.

"She's... She left?"

"Few days back, 'parently," he mumbled.

"Shit."

"It was coming a long way off."

"Go sleep it off, Greg." John helped him up the stairs, cleaned him up a bit and then pushed him into the bed. "Sleep."

* * *

><p><strong>John:<strong>

Taking care of Lestrade was _really_ not what he needed. But he grit his teeth and put the man to sleep before wading through the shit-fest that was the rest of his house. Jesus, the man was miserable. In the midst of his cleaning, John realised that, in some sick, fucked-up way, he'd missed cleaning up after another person not himself. Such were the habits that Sher—that living with another person forced upon a man. He put the rubbish out in the bins and cleaned up several old vomit stains before thoroughly Lysol-ing the place.

Once everything was in some semblance of order—the broken glass in a paper bag and binned, he found a scrap of paper and jotted down the quick note: _Don't worry about it. Drinking doesn't help you deal—but you know that. Give me a call if need be. -John_

Then dropped the paracetamol on top and set a glass of water next to it.

Then took himself home and made tea and sat in front of his telly and maybe missed Sherlock a little less.

* * *

><p><strong>Mycroft:<strong>

He frowned fiercely into the fireplace, ignoring Bea's stomping around. She'd grown irritated in his inactive state. Granted, this was growing to unheard proportions. Prior to. His brother's death. She was so irritated she was cleaning _everything_. Her hair was done up in the way he liked, sweeping away from her face and pinned back simply with one of those claw clips. But her brow was wrinkled, lips turned down, shadows under her eyes from stressing about his increasingly poor living habits.

He curled a lip in disgust. All this thought about...his brother, and he was becoming more like him every day.

That thought spurred him to his feet. "Beatrice," he barked.

"What _now_, Mycroft. What do you_ want_."

"Lunch, I should say."

"It's nearly supper."

He waved a hand. "I'd like to go to Lando's."

"Oh, decided to be a human being finally?" She still had her back to him.

He suppressed the sigh. "I would like to take you out to dinner, Beatrice."

She said nothing.

"As way of apology for my, admittedly, rather juvenile behaviour."

She dropped her cloth and turned, brow arched. "I'll just get dressed then." She disappeared up the stairs. But she was smiling.

His own melted away and he was left scowling into the fireplace, startlingly shaking with rage. Of all the selfish things to do! He balled up the newspaper he had with the news about his brother and raised an arm to chuck it into the fireplace. But...didn't. Snarling instead, now there was no one to see, he threw it behind his chair and tugged on his clothing. Nothing fit properly anymore. "Damn you," he hissed to himself, smoothing his hands over his waistcoat and resettling his jacket on his shoulders. He'd already let out the seams once. It wouldn't do to have to again. He was eating light at Lando's then.

Following his wife up the stairs, Mycroft stepped into the bathroom to re-comb his hair and reapply the cologne she liked.

* * *

><p><strong>Mrs. Hudson<strong>

Mrs. Turner gone, she cleaned her cups and then, grown bored, she dug through her CDs and stumbled across one labelled with a permanent marker. Breath caught, Virginia tottered across her flat to the CD player and popped it in with trembling fingers.

There was a measured clicking and then a cleared throat.

"Mrs. Hudson."

She whimpered.

"First of all, Happy Christmas."

Pressed a hand over her mouth.

"Second of all, seeing as you are a woman who has nearly everything she needs, I did a spot of creative thinking, and thought you might enjoy this."

Sherlock's voice stopped and then the frail notes of a violin slowly wound through her flat while she gripped the mantle tight, knees weak.

Paganini's Caprice no. 24

Mendelssohn's Concerto in E Minor

Bartok's Violin Concerto No. 2

Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade violin solos

Elgar's Salut d'Amour

Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto, second movement

Bach's Chaconne Partita in D Minor

When the last strains died, Mrs. Hudson was on her knees, sobbing freely, soaking her handkerchief.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock's voice said gently. "Thank you."

The CD clicked and then Sherlock's voice said again, "Mrs. Hudson. First of all, Happy Chri—"

She scrambled and slammed a hand down on it to shut it off. Then lowered herself into her chair where she cried until she had no tears left.

* * *

><p><strong>Molly<strong>

Anyone would have said Molly Hooper had become anti-social. Her sister chastised her for her lack of 'fun!' How come she never did anything anymore? How come she never came out? Molly used to like to dance. Now she just sat in the booth or on her stool and sulked. What was the point anymore! Then threw her hands up and headed off to the floor by herself. But Dani was young. She didn't see the world through the eyes of death and watch as everything changed around her.

Mycroft was wrong. She wasn't fine. She hurt. But she knew Sherlock was alive. That's why she couldn't face John. Couldn't face Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, _any_ of them. God. Lestrade. Poor bloke lost his job, lost his wife.

She rolled her eyes and growled to herself. This was ridiculous. It was hardly her fault, was it? Dani came back when the song ended.

"Are you going to dance or not?"

Shaking her head at her younger sister, Molly downed the rest of her drink and went to dance.

Life didn't stop, after all.

Through the flashing lights, she thought she saw a long grinning face framed by dark curls. But the next time she turned round, it was gone.

Molly kept dancing.

* * *

><p><strong>Lestrade<strong>

He didn't stop drinking. Tried. Too many thoughts. In his head. He didn't like it. But he did cut back. And by thoughts he meant feelings. Cutting through him. Eating him inside out.

Sally stopped by once.

Didn't come by again after she smelled the place.

It was better.

Perhaps he ought to get his arse off the sofa. It wouldn't do for John to rescue him again.

He groaned. Rolled off the sofa. Clattered through the cans. What day was it? Where was his mobile. He fumbled for the lights, and looked at the clock once he blinked through his eyes adjusting. 11:40 then. He thumped up the stairs to shower. Wait. Mobile. On the counter? No. He turned around and tripped back down again, rifling through the rubbish everywhere to find his mobile. Then promptly snorted. Dead battery. No wonder he wasn't waking up on time. Not that he would have listened to an alarm.

Dragging a hand over his face, Greg caught his reflection in the hall mirror. He looked like shit.

Just because his life had gone to shit too didn't mean he had to fall apart. He was acting like a child. He plugged his mobile in and then headed back up the stairs to shower. Winced at the rancid-smell of himself and his clothes. He showered quickly and then went downstairs again to check his mobile. 8 September. Jesus. Been long enough. He'd really fallen down the rabbit hole. Dragging a hand through his damp hair, Greg managed to dig through his kitchen for a rubbish bag, sweeping all of the cans and bottles into it from his counter. After an hour of steady cleaning, his house looked habitable again. He collapsed onto the sofa and promptly dropped off into sleep with a metal promise to search out a job tomorrow.

* * *

><p><strong>Mycroft<strong>

Frowning at the information set before him, the evidence _was_ refutable. Unlikely. But possible. And if anyone could pull one over on him, it would be his late departed brother. This was the fifth incident, however. The person was clever. Knew something of his brother's life. Easier these days, what with the doctor's blog for all to see.

The frown pulled sharper at his face.

"Oh God. You're not on that _again_, Mycroft." Bea dropped her gloves on the sideboard.

"Sorry. It's puzzled me, and I need to figure it out."

"It's puzzled _you_?"

He looked up long enough to give her a look, and then back down at the camera footage, the figure dodging any glance of his face as if he knew the camera were there.

"It's not Sherlock, Mycroft."

"I _know_ that!"

"Well, don't get your knickers in a twist."

He glared at her fiercely until she left the room with a shrug. Spreading the surveillance photos across the dining room table.

"Oh. Dear God..." Mycroft was on his feet before he knew it, slamming his hands down on the table and shouted his brother's name for the first time in nearly thirteen months.

* * *

><p><strong>John<strong>

John Watson's life started again when a slumped figure staggered into him as soon as he opened the door.

"Oi, you okay?" He looped an arm around the bloke's middle. "Can you stand?"

The guy muttered something.

"Sorry, say again? Do you need medical assistance?"

"John..." the man groaned.

He frowned. "What? How do you—"

"Inside. Please."

John's stomach erupted into flutters. "No," he moaned. "No no no..."

"_Inside,_ John!"

He flung back the hood and dragged the man into the light of the hall and stared. An eternity, he thought perhaps. Forever. Eyes roving.

Sherlock's gaunt face, irritated expression, and rolling eyes looked up at him.

"_Jesus_..."

"Can we just...upstairs? No, don't be angry..." his dead friend pleaded, gripping John's good shoulder very tightly.

John cursed a low stream of filth and then dragged Sherlock up to their sitting room, shoved him down onto the sofa still decorated with Sherlock's robe, and stomped away to fetch the med kit. "When I am finished," he said, low and vicious, "you _will_ tell me everything, Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, John, yes," Sherlock said, slumping into the cushions, sans-hoodie.

He was thin. Thinn_er_. Shadows beneath his red eyes from lack of sleep. A sluggish bleeding from beneath his matted _blonde_ hair. "At least it's clotting," he muttered, snapping on gloves and cleaning the gash. It didn't need stitches. Head wounds, of course, just bled a lot. When everything was cleaned and packed away, he returned the kit and then pulled out the Chinese leftovers and made a heaping amount. He shoved the plate into Sherlock's hands, his own perfectly steady, and glared at him.

Sherlock didn't make a sound. He accepted the fork and John drank his luke-warm tea while he waited for Sherlock's mouth to not be busy. Until Sherlock began to eat very very slowly.

"Finish up," John said flatly, without shifting his glance from his magazine.

Sherlock, obligingly, ate.

"Tell me everything."

And did.

Then John stormed up to his room and locked his door, sitting with his back to it to keep Sherlock from picking and entering.

When he woke in the morning and opened his door, Sherlock fell into his room, immediately awake and brandishing a knife.

"Good Lord, you collossal idiot!" John snapped, disarming him neatly and guiding him to his own bed. "Sleep. I don't want to see you up and about for twelve hours." He made to go downstairs, but paused at Sherlock's hand on his wrist. It trembled, but only slightly.

"I'm sorry I've pained you..." he whispered.

"God, Sherlock, you've done more than that," John said thickly.

Sherlock flinched.

"Who else knows?"

"Molly."

"_Molly_?"

"She helped me." Sherlock's grin was pained.

"_Jesus_. Not even Mycroft?"

"I imagine he knows by now..." Sherlock sighed, dropped John's wrist, and looked away. "Don't let him in."

John stared.

"Tell him I'm fine, just...don't let him in."

"I imagine he's worried himself insanely."

A smile quirked at Sherlock's lips. "Insanely might be the correct word to use."

"What did you do?"

"He's so paranoid about the cameras, John."

He shuddered at the use of his name from those lips.

"He's seen me, no doubt. In disguise. If he pulls the right ones together, he'll figure it out that it's me."

"Right. We'll have to get you back to your natural colour. Blonde washes you out."

"Shouldn't have gone so light..." Sherlock mused, eyes shut.

John lingered next to him a moment, letting a finger run up Sherlock's thumb. It twitched. John turned to leave. "Get some sleep, Sherlock."

"John—"

"I'll wake you for dinner. Get some rest. No, some _real_ rest."

* * *

><p><strong>Sherlock<strong>

When he woke it was dark.

For a quarter of a second he could have been anywhere in the world.

Except that he was in John's bed. That smelt of John. Where John slept.

And then he was back amongst the living.

He stumbled down the stairs to the sitting room. John looked up at him, unapologetic. "You said you'd wake me for dinner."

"And you needed sleep."

Sherlock sat in John's chair, pulling his knees up to his chest.

"Do you feel better?"

John hadn't forgiven him yet. Had he apologised? He'd done that once already. "John... I am very sorry."

The expression on John's face twisted. "You said."

"But I'm not forgiven yet. I understand. That's logical."

"NO!" He jerked at the sudden volume, John on his feet. "It's _not_ logical! Sherlock, what the _fuck_! You _died_! You made me _fucking watch_, you utter bastard!"

He flinched. "I—"

"Shut up! You made me—" John's voice broke and his covered his face with a hand, letting loose a stream of profanity. "I _watched_ you commit suicide. Sherlock. I know... I didn't know. Why. _God_. I didn't know _why_! And you made me _watch_! What kind of bastard does that!"

"He was going to kill you, John!" His voice was dangerously plaintive.

John paled. "God."

Sherlock scowled. "He was going to have you killed if I didn't do it—you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, and I couldn't allow that, so I had to follow through. I had to eliminate him before I could be 'living' again." He paused. "Did my brother stop by?"

"He did." John dropped his hand and offered a half smile. "I couldn't get any pictures."

The laugh came sharp and he was surprised by it as John. Though John's face eased into fondness more easily after. "I... Thank you."

Brows up, John pursed his lips. "I've not forgiven you."

"I know." He held a hand out to him. "Would you...in time?"

Licking his lips in that quick nervous way that Sherlock had missed, John frowned in thought. "I can," he said, low. "God, Sherlock. You can't ever do that again. If you do, I'd hunt you down and kill you myself."

Sherlock shuddered.

"I couldn't do it again. It'd break me."

He nodded earnestly. "I heard you."

"Good."

"No. Before. At my grave."

John paled and swayed.

Sherlock was on his feet, gripping John's shoulders. "I heard what you said, John. That was..." Emotions roiled through him unexpectedly like waves on a beach. He cleared his throat. "I was. Touched. I didn't know I mean that much to you. Thank you. I couldn't... I did it for you." Stepped back. Dropped his eyes.

The tension stretched between them. "_God_." The word was ripped from John like he hadn't meant to say it. "You _idiot_."

He grunted as the air was suddenly squeezed from him, wrapped in John's arms as he was. "J-john...!"

"Don't you _ever_ do that to me again, Sherlock. I _mean_ it. I don't... I don't know what I'd do without you..."

Sherlock softened at the confession, sagging into John, resting his head against John's that was buried in his neck. "I won't. I promise I'll tell you everything."

"Good," John choked. "Good."

They stayed there a while, until the flat grew dark, and when John finally let go, he looked Sherlock in the eye and offered him a smile.

"We're going to be okay."

"Good," Sherlock said quietly and then sank onto the sofa while John went into the kitchen, turning on lights. Tomorrow he would see Mycroft in person. Visit Mrs. Hudson, apologise to Lestrade, and thank Molly. And as he closed his eyes, the familiar sounds of 221B Baker street filled his mind with the sense of _home_.


End file.
